System Error
by Maya Beebop
Summary: James meets his match, just out of his reach!
1. Hold Onto Your Mouse!

**Chapter One**

**"Hold Onto Your Mouse!"**

* * *

"Mr. Bond, you're due in a meeting with M right now." 

James looked over at Moneypenny, and nodded as he walked in. His black suit whipped by and into the main office and the woman behind the desk stood at his entrance.

"Welcome back, James. I've got good news and bad news for you so have a seat." She gestured to the chair in front of her and watched him sit.

M began slowly, letting information sink in. "James, we've received an e-mail. It came to my personal address precisely at noon today with no return address. No one else here has looked at it. My eyes were the first to read it.

"Here it is. You are the only other person besides me who will see this."

She slid a piece of paper across the desk. James picked it up. Simply typed and printed on a computer, it read as thus:

_"I have copied the List of Casualties. Wait for further correspondence."_

James read it over twice before realizing what it meant. Someone had gotten a hold on the secret list of all the innocent people that had been killed either on purpose or by accident in the line of an agent's duty. They had somehow copied it, and now held it, probably dangling it over the precipice of selling it to every family that had been told some lie about how their loved one had died. If this happened, it meant lawsuits, counter-suits, and probably the end of MI6's good reputation, not to mention its existence.

James slid it back over the desk, silent.

"You know what this means, James. Someone is going to hold this list and blackmail us. It is imperative that you recover it. If they sport it all over the world, the agents who have committed these crimes are as good as convicted. Including you, 007."

James sat, thinking.

"I know you prefer to work alone or recruit your own partner, but I intervened this time and got you someone. You can't do a thing when you're on a computer and everyone in this building knows it, so I sent for an expert."

"But M, I don't need-…" he started to protest.

"Forget it, James, there's no reason to whine. You'll be accepting her help whether you like it or not, and that's from both me _and_ her."

"It _is_ a woman?"

"Yes." M picked up a manila file and opened it, scanning a profile page that seemed rather short.

"Her name's Devon Hunt, and she's from the States. She's been convicted more than once of computer scandals and other misdemeanors and now resides in maximum-security prison near Washington D.C. Her specialty seems to be hack jobs and manipulating the system, though it's not her only talent."

James leaned over and looked at the picture: a young woman, with long, dark brown hair in a ponytail. Her deep brown eyes seemed almost black, and she wore a black tank top and service tag.

"She isn't bound by the regular dress code, I see?" James commented.

"She's pulled a few strings and does online favors for certain privileges. After all, she's in for seventy years with no chance of parole."

"And what does she get in exchange for doing Her Majesty such a favor?"

M smirked. "She helps in this case, and we set her free."

"I see. Perfect motivation. Do we have a plan of attack on how we "spring her" - as they say in America?"

"Parliament has agreed to sign a decree bringing Devon here to England as a prisoner and releasing her on good behavior. Lots of technical mumbo-jumbo I'm sure you're not interested in hearing, Mr. Bond. Suffice to say we'll get her here legally."

James smiled. He looked down again at the file.

"What is this! Is this right?"

M looked at what he was pointing at.

"Oh yes. I forgot to mention; she's only 19, so I'd keep my distance if I were you. She's not the type you're after."

He looked flabbergasted. 'You paired me with a _teenager_!"

"Bond, she's the best there is. She's hacked into the CIA before to change her record, and it took three months and a chance notice to realize what she had done. If her paperwork had been thrown out at the proper time of the Statute of Limitations, no one would have noticed at all."

He sighed. "I suppose she could be alright. She's young, at any rate."

* * *

James stood outside MI6 headquarters with M and a dozen other agents. He observed his wristwatch and noticed that the "delivery truck" was six minutes late. 

"Shouldn't they be here by now?" he asked.

"Patience is a virtue, Mr. Bond. Here they are now."

M gestured to a black van pulling up. The windows were tinted and hid the driver from view, and the back doors sprang open. Four heavily armed agents sprung out, pointing their guns at three figures descending from the trunk.

Two agents were escorting the girl, bound by the hands. Her shackles were welded together and were attached to a pair of long rods, held by the escorts.

"Ah, here she is now. Devon Hunt, welcome to England."

The girl looked up, a sullen expression on her face. She shot daggers out of her eyes at everyone, and gave a small smirk.

"Nice to be here."


	2. Translate to English, Please

**Chapter Two**

**"Translate to English, please!"**

* * *

They were safely inside behind a locked, steel door before her bindings were taken off. She rubbed her wrists, attempting to bring feeling back into them.

"As you know, I am M, your new boss. This is 007, James Bond. He'll be your partner." The elderly woman tried to give a reassuring smile. "I'll leave you two here alone to bond. James, lock up when you're through."

She left the room. Four eyes watched her go. When she'd left, Devon crossed her arms and leaned against the wall.

"So…" James began. "From America? Where in the States?"

She gave him a dark look. "D.C."

"I see, the capital. Ever been to the White House?"

Devon uncrossed her arms and stood straight. "Don't try to start small-talk. I'm here for one purpose and one purpose only. I help you catch the goods, and I'm free. Lay off, Bond."

He stepped back. "I don't know what you mean! I-…"

"Your reputation's gotten around, 007. You make a pass at anything that moves and isn't a minor. And you usually succeed. Before you know it, you're in bed, having a good old time. And in the morning the woman is left alone with nothing but a half-smoked cigarette and cold bed-sheets."

He was startled to hear such a condemning statement.

"Miss Hunt, I-…"

"Just…Just don't say anything, OK? I'm not here for a good time. MI6 can burn for all I care, and so can England. But as soon as we've caught the guy, I'll be sipping a cold drink in the Caymans, laughing at how bad I screwed the world."

She turned and went into her room, which was outfitted with bars over the windows and clear Plexi-glass between the bars leading to the small hallway. Slamming the door closed behind her, she climbed onto her bed and proceeded to ignore James until he gave up and left.

* * *

"So how do you think this e-mail was sent, Devon?" 

Hunt, Bond, and M were all in M's office. Devon sat in the leather recliner next to the PC, M in a comfortable stuffed armchair that had been brought in at her request, and James in one of the mock-leather chairs on the other side of the desk, looking awkwardly at the tilted screen.

Hunt sounded exasperated.

"Whoever did this used a careful line of encoding to make sure they couldn't be traced. But what _they_ don't know or don't care about is that they had to go through about 200 other addresses to get there."

"Proper English, please?" Bond requested. Devon shot him a tired glance, and M gave him a reproachful look.

"They left what's called a 'ghost trail', a path leading from this e-mail to where-ever they sent it from. Unfortunately, there's no telling how far back the trail could go. It could double back and twist and turn all throughout cyberspace, depending on how long they left the encryption running."

She sighed, a deep, meaningful, long breath that seemed to come from the very pit of her soul. She was in her element now.

"There's only one upside. They only have so many lines of encoding they can use."

Bond sighed at this. "Well, how many of them are there?"

"'Bout three billion."

He choked. "_Three billion!_"

She nodded. "Mm-hmm. So, there can only be a maximum of three billion lines of code. The downside is that they could be in any order imaginable, with no repetitions of the same line. So all that's left is to go through them, one by one."

"How long could that take?"

"With the program I've got currently, it could take _days_, even going through them at a pace that's faster than lightning. And I've got the best that's out there. So all we need is time. A lot of it."

"How _much_ time?" M questioned.

"Could be hours, could be days. Maybe even _weeks_. It all depends: there are three billion possible paths out there and only one is going to lead us to the source. So, the odds are three billion to one we're gonna find it on the first try. Not great odds, mind you, but certainly better than if we were going through Unix. Believe, me, old-school code cracking may be more rewarding, but it's _hell_ waiting."

"How long does Unix take? Have you ever had to do it?"

"I was hired more than once to crack Unix-style code. It took me three months to sit there and wait. Four hundred trillion plus lines of code I went through, and only got about halfway through what I _could _have. I got lucky that time."

Bond was blown away. He had gotten lost the instant she said "Unix", so he was trying to get back into the discussion when she stopped talking to him and began with M.

"Alright, I'm gonna make out a list of hardware I'm gonna need for this project. The sooner you get all of it, the sooner I can get to work."

Devon picked up a pen and scribbled some words on a piece of paper, then handed it to M. "It's gonna take you a little bit of time and upwards about five grand, but you can get _most_ of those things within a couple days. That last item will be a bit more than everything else combined, because technically it isn't legal anywhere except in the CIA. But I know an inside trader who'll give it to you for about eight g's."

M didn't bat an eyelid. "I suppose you mean American dollars?"

"I never learned exchange rates. So, yeah. American cash."

"Alright. Give us some time and the name of your contact, and-…"

"Nope. He only knows me. I gotta be there for the transaction or he'll whip out a Glock and blow your agent away. Trust me, we go way back. It's cool."

M gave her a suspicious look and nodded. "Alright. We'll begin arrangements immediately."

Devon smirked and turned back to the computer, lost in her element.


	3. Scottish Negotiations

**Chapter Three**

**"Scottish Negotiations"**

* * *

Bond and Hunt stood outside a huge brick building in Berlin. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, feeling the sturdy security of the gun at his side. But when Devon saw him do this, she frowned. Reaching over before he could protest, she grabbed the gun and threw it into a nearby Dumpster.

"What did you do that for?" he demanded.

"You think we'll get ten steps into the building if you're packing heat? Don't underestimate Geoff Morgan, Bond. He's an expert and doesn't need to know twenty kinds of jiu-jitsu to kick your ass."

James, put properly in his place, frowned and followed her inside. Once three steps in the door, they were both frisked and led to an office on the third floor. As they stood outside an intricately carved door, Devon sighed and turned to him.

"Alright. Last warning: in the name of God, don't open your mouth unless he talks to you, alright? I know you might have been trained to be the offensive in all situations, but this is different. You rub him the wrong way, and we're _both_ dead."

Bond tried to get a word out, but she hissed and put a finger to her lips.

"Come in," someone demanded in a thick Scottish accent.

She opened the door and they both stepped into a richly furnished office. A man, probably in his late twenties, sat behind a large desk. He had ear-length, wavy black hair and dark, expressive but cold eyes. His hands were clasped together in front of him and a smirk played on his lips.

"Devon Hunt," he commented when he saw her face. "Knew you'd find some loophole to get you out of there."

She sighed with a grin. "Can't surprise you."

"Never."

She gestured to James as he stood, looking almost sullen. "This is-…"

"Christian Donovan," he interrupted. She shot him a surprised and worried look, but he gave her the Don't-tell-him-who-I-really-am glare.

"Donovan," she finished.

"Well," Morgan began, stepping out of his deep leather chair to walk around and inspect Bond. He looked him up and down, getting a feel for his character. "Mr. Donovan here has the air of a military man. Good physical build; carries himself proudly. I also noticed before you two entered that he happened to be carrying a light pistol, which you so intelligently relieved him of, Devon. Wouldn't have wanted a scene, would we?" he asked with a grin.

"No," she responded, giving Bond a sideways glance and proving Morgan wasn't a man to mess with.

Morgan leaned on his desk and folded his arms. "Well, I expect you aren't here to talk about the weather. What do you need, and what are you offering?"

Devon pulled out a piece of paper with some script and some figures on it. "This is what we're after. And those are the compared prices I can get it for from some of your competitors. However, I'm willing to offer a bit more, just to keep good relationships up with my regular dealer."

He chuckled. 'How much more?"

"Seven grand."

"American? You're gonna have to do better than that. I couldn't see this for less than at least eighty-five hundred."

"Seventy-five."

"Eight-twenty-five."

"Eight even."

"Done." He slapped the piece of paper down on his desk and grinned, showing off a set of gorgeous teeth. "I'll get it to you in a few minutes. Lemme see where it is." As he picked up the receiver of the phone next to his desk, he shot Bond a look. "I have a few things to go over with you, Devon," he commented. "So if your friend could step outside a moment…"

"Yeah." She grabbed James' upper arm and pulled him from the room in spite of his struggles. Once they were outside, he whispered furiously.

"What do you think you're doing?" he demanded. "If he's got anything to say, he can say it in front of _both_ of us!"

"Will you shut up?" she snapped, also very low in volume. "Get it through your head that on this turf, we are _not_ equals. He trusts me more than you. Now sit out here like a good boy or we are both _screwed_."

She left him there and went back inside, almost closing the door but accidentally leaving it just a crack open. James took full advantage of this mistake and casually placing his ear next to the crack while he tried to peer through the frosted glass that lined the doorway.

"Just why are you in such urgent need of this program, Devon?" Morgan's voice and fuzzy figure asked as he hung up.

"Got a new project and I have to track someone down through a ghost trail," she responded. Bond had half a mind to yell at her later for telling anyone else. Rule number one when it came to missions: _never_ reveal anything about them to other parties!

"Oh. And the fact that you're working with some Nancy-boy from M16 has nothing to do with it?" he laughed back. Bond's eyes lit up in surprise. So he had known?

"Not enough that you need to know."

"So now I'm just the middle-man?" Morgan responded, moving closer. "You'd cut me out of some prime information? Dev, I thought we were better than that."

Bond saw her look away. "No, Geoff. It's purely professional now. Don't you understand? If anyone knew I was still coming around here when I could just as easily get cheaper stuff from someone else…they'd start talking."

"So why don't we give them something to talk about?" he asked, just before pulling her in for a long, passionate kiss.

James almost choked, giving away the fact that he was eavesdropping on the whole scene. He pulled away from the door, deeply offended that she'd left out that little detail of her knowing this man.

He heard them move apart and someone came over to the door, at which time said door was pulled open and Devon emerged, holding a package. She motioned for Bond to follow her, and they left the building in stony silence.


	4. Timeline

**Chapter Four**

**"Timeline"**

* * *

They had barely returned to the hotel they were staying in when James threw his coat across the room in a huff and gave her a condescending glare.

"You didn't tell me you two had been involved."

She glanced up, surprised, and smirked. "Why, Bond…jealous?"

"Not at all. But it's nice to know about these previous relationships before we start compromising the mission all because of emotions."

"There's no compromising involved here. He just…we missed each other. That's all. Even _you'd_ miss an ex if you'd been locked up for a few years," she commented.

"An _ex_?"

"It's none of your business. Butt out."

James was shocked. Usually, the women he'd dealt with were willing to talk about past relationships at the drop of a hat. In fact, they often did, even when he didn't bring it up. But she was like a concrete wall; there was no getting through.

"Miss Hunt, I'm afraid it falls under the category of 'withholding information' if you refuse to fill me in on how you know Mr. Morgan," he demanded, half following protocol and half actually interested.

She groaned and reclined on the sofa, rubbing her forehead. "Alright. Jesus, don't get your boxers in a twist.

"Morgan and I met when I had to find someone to outfit my growing operation. I needed electronics and, since I was in Berlin at the time, he was the closest and most reliable. He gave me the 'humor-me-and-you'll-get-a-discount' shtick, so I played the part of his arm candy at the MacGwen's Benefit social dinner where he needed to appear like he had a girlfriend or he'd be caught by the cops or something like that. After that, it's all "upstairs and downstairs and in the lady's chamber", as the story goes," she finished with a coy grin that told James they didn't exactly play pinochle after dates.

It was a moment before he responded. "Well. Alright then. Thank you."

"No problem. In fact, the conversation made me remember what a good poker player he was."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, see, it's this game that's really popular back home in the States, where you bet pieces of your clothes and _everybody_ wins in the end…"

Bond escaped the explanation by retiring to his room, where he undressed and dialed MI6 headquarters. When he'd cleared himself, he demanded to speak to M.

"Yes, James, what is it? I find it hard to believe you've already acquiesced what I sent you there for only last night?" she greeted.

"M, we've got it and it only cost eight thousand. But I have since discovered that maybe it wasn't just coincidence that Hunt picked this 'Morgan' to buy it from."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean she knew him from before. How old did you say she was again?"

"Nineteen. About seven months away from twenty."

"And how long was she in prison?"

"Two and a half years."

"So she must have met him…when she was six- or seventeen."

"Cradle-robbing?"

"In so few words; yes. How would she be in Berlin when she was sixteen to have bought from him? I think there is a huge time gap with Miss Hunt here. Something about her story rings false."

"What do you need?"

"Access to pictures agents have taken at parties. MacGwen's Benefit ring a bell?"

"Actually…yes. I was there myself. We'll link you in a moment…"

The files popped up on Bond's laptop and he thanked his boss and hung up. Clicking the icon, he scrolled through the pictures quickly, trying to get a lead. There was the Prime Minister, a few generals, M looking two years younger, some senators from the U.S., a few African diplomats, and…absolutely nothing with Morgan or Devon.

He sighed and yawned. It was rather late in the wee hours of the morning with jet lag. But maybe he missed something…

Scrolling slower, examining every smiling face in every picture, finally he struck lucky. Behind a picture of a gaudily dressed woman and her tuxedoed youth, there they were, ascending a flight of steps; faces half-turned in giddy laughter. Morgan was wearing his hair slightly longer and curlier. Devon, obviously too young to be there, was looking rather grown-up in a golden-colored gown and glitter-frosted up-do.

Bond leaned back in his chair as the picture automatically cropped and focused itself. Soon the image of just the pair remained on screen in startling detail.

He saved it and continued to search, but didn't turn up anything else. Finally he re-examined all the pictures, and with a sudden growing sense of familiarity, realized he knew exactly where they were.

And it wasn't in Berlin.


End file.
